Wednesday, November 30, 2011

I don't know how else to say this.............

You fucking stink.

That seems so harsh.  Rude.  Maybe even insensitive.  But isn't brutal honesty sometimes the ONLY way to address an issue?  I don't know.  I'm lost.  I need help on this one faithful readers.  (all 2 of you)

The Prodigal Son is home and he has a friend that insists our basement is a hostel perfectly situated between his place of employment and his home - so the ease of just pulling in here at night after work and crashing is so luring that he cannot help himself.  And since he arrives late, is quiet, doesn't eat any food and leaves early in the morning without a disturbance to anyone in the house, I normally wouldn't give a shit.  Mi casa es su casa, right?  But... he fucking.stinks. 

The first time we encountered the smell of death which resonates from his earthly transport, we mistook the odor for a rotting carcass in the kitchen trash can.  It was only after we'd emptied the trash, scrubbed the can and sink with bleach, threw away everything in the refrigerator and sprayed 32 oz of Lysol around the kitchen, did we realize the smell was not emanating from the kitchen, but instead from the adjacent family room where he was peacefully dozing.  My eyes began to water and the contents of my empty stomach began clawing their way up my esophagus, begging to be released.  Acting swiftly, I shoved two paper towels up each nostril, poured myself a cup of coffee and retreated to the garage where I proceeded to dry heave until we departed the stink infested house for a soccer game.  Upon returning home, I retreated to my bedroom where I remained, with toilet paper shoved up my nose, until he awakened and left for work.  We quickly threw open every window in the house and shampooed the carpets, threw the blankets and sleeping bags on the deck and talked shit on him the remainder of the day. 

We told his father that we got a "whiff" of him and that he did not smell good and suggested he see a doctor immediately as the smell was not of athlete's foot, but instead, something far more serious - perhaps jungle rot?  We told the kid that he needed new shoes and that he couldn't leave his in our house and as a matter of fact, he needed to throw his shoes in the trash and get new ones.  We even told his father to please, for the love of God and little baby Jesus, buy his son new shoes. 

He did get new shoes.  And his socks looked pearly white the next time I saw him.  I was hopeful.  I was pleased.  But 2 minutes after he passed through the kitchen en route to the bathroom and returning to the basement (as we told him he could no longer sleep in the family room on the main level) - the smell wafted through the house again.  This time not so much like sour milk, but more like a locker room after 100 young men returned from and 8 hour practice in 112 degree heat.  And again, I was forced to retreat to my bedroom where I remained until he departed for the day.  And as I carefully made my way to the basement, a can of air freshener in hand and spraying it in front of me to lead the way, yet the odor became stronger and stronger and my eyes began to water and I began to dry heave again. 

I had plans today.  Plans to walk on the treadmill (in the basement).  Plans to put away all the Christmas tubs (in the basement).  Plans to bask in the glory and wonder of this crisp day.  But the plans have been crushed by the sight of his shoes by the back door.  Empty shoes at the back door mean his stinky ass will eventually appear on the main level to use the bathroom and the stench from the basement will spew forth into the kitchen and the remainder of my day will be spent scrubbing with bleach, spraying with air freshener and cussing the young man I once loved and welcomed into my home as my own. 

And the husband, the PS and I will stand in the kitchen looking like deer in the headlights and proclaiming, "SOMEONE.HAS.GOT.TO.SAY.SOMETHING.TO.HIM."  And I, being the rational one in the family, will begin crying, "I can't take it.  I can't live like this.  This is my home and this cannot happen again." 

So please, faithful friends, I need your advice.  How do you address such a delicate situation? 

While you ponder this question and draft your response, I will be out buying candles and lighting 1,200 of them in the house.  Oh... and more air freshener, as I've honestly used 8 cans from Pier One in a month.  I'm going broke over here - H.E.L.P.!!!!!!

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Christmas Blip 2011 #1

I survived the great road trip of 2011!  Made it back home with fingernails intact and no idiot drivers from Iowa were killed at my doing! 

Sunday, I decided to let the girls decorate one of the Christmas trees.  Alone.  Without my guidance and direction.  They put on some Christmas music and after the husband and I spent an hour looking for the faulty bulb in the string of lights, the girls woke up from their boredom induced coma and set out to adorn the tree with all the fun decorations each of the kids has collected over the years.  I sat in the kitchen working on a 500 piece puzzle, which had now turned into a mission not to be abandoned before I turned in that night so I could eavesdrop on their conversation and laughter.  Sisters.  One 16 and one 9.  One brunette and one blonde.  Both with blue eyes and both the beats of my heart.  I was giddy with excitement at my ability to stand back and allow them this special time together without my constant bossing and nagging.  Oh the joy I would experience!!!  And so it began......

Brunette:  What are you doing?  Don't put that ornament there - you just put one there - you need to space them out.

Blonde:  That's MY ornament sissy - why are you hanging up all of my ornaments?

Brunette:  What the frick difference does it make?  Jesus Blonde - you're such a brat.

Blonde:  No.  I'm not a brat.  Mommy - why do sissy and brudder have more ornaments than me?  I hardly have any?

Me (calmly from kitchen):  Because they are older and have amassed them at the rate of 3 or more per year - so when you get to be their age you will have just as many sweetie - no worries.

Brunette:  I doubt it, because no one loves you Blonde.  They just pretend they do.  STOP HANGING THEM RIGHT NEXT TO OTHER.  JESUS.  I FRICKIN TOLD YOU THAT 10 TIMES ALREADY!!!

Blonde:  Sissy - it doesn't matter.  Is this yours or brudders?

Brunette:  MINE!  All of these are MINE. Stop hanging MINE.

And so it went for nearly an hour.  With the brunette's text alert sounding every 15 seconds in between the sound of ornaments crashing to the wood floor shattering into a million pieces.  The blonde frowning and on the verge of tears and the brunette rushing through the project so she could get back to her texting and tweeting.  And I remained calm.  At peace with my puzzle that was now threatening to drive me to insanity.  And thinking the entire time........  They let people who are only 16 raise children?  How?  How can it be so?  What a horrible.fucking.idea. 

And so I made a mental note to put that child on birth control at the first given chance - - -  just in case. 
And I asked the blonde if she had a good time decorating the tree without mommy.  "No." 

Great.  Another childhood memory I've managed to totally fuck up for this child.  I can't win.

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Oh Why are there No Moose here?

Yesterday morning I woke up and immediately remembered a dream I'd had overnight.  My mom was driving and texting while I was in the car.  And we were on a narrow and curvy road and I kept asking her to stop and she refused and kept saying, "I've got this - I drive a Volvo - it's fine."  It was totally fucked up and irresponsible and I was still mad at her and stayed mad at her all day yesterday.  I should probably send her an email and let her know just how fucked up and irresponsible she is.

Then I drove to Rochester, MN.  And along the way I learned several things that I'd like to share:

  1. I am capable of leaving the house and driving, alone, for distances farther than 10 miles.
  2. People in Wyandotte County drive like shit and that is evidenced by the fact that all of their cars are beat to shit.
  3. 635 is not the same as 670 and take you to different places.
  4. People in Missouri drive like shit.
  5. I am addicted to my phone and had that was evidenced by the serious withdrawals I was having by not being able to look at it continuously for 7 hours.
  6. People in Iowa drive even worse than people in Missouri.
  7. Talk to Tweet would be a super cool app because I kept thinking of really funny shit I wanted to Tweet along the way, but could not because I was driving - I wonder if someone has already thought of that?  I should look into that. 
  8. Wendy's new and improved burgers are not really that improved.  As a matter of fact, I think they're even shittier than before.
  9. Road trips are more fun with alcohol - but that seems irresponsible so I didn't bring any alcohol.
  10. I drink too much - of anything.  I swilled water after water, one right after the other.  This explains my perpetual over-serving myself of alcohol.  I should likely just stick to water.
  11. I-35 north is a boring fucking drive and evidently also the home of the great deer massacre of 2011. 
  12. It's peculiarly peaceful being alone for 7 hours in a car.
  13. I sing exactly like George Michael, Melissa Ethridge, Rihanna, Janet Jackson and Natasha Bedingfeld.  I had no idea my vocal range was so broad.
  14. If you take an anti-anxiety pill, 1/2 a Xanax and drink two beers - you CAN sleep through the night.
  15. It's cold as fuck in Minnesota.
  16. Evidently there are no moose in this part of Minnesota so I'm pretty upset and disappointed. 
  17. The mattress in the hotel room will not fit in my suitcase - no matter how I try to fold it or cram it in, so I'll need to come up with Plan B on getting that into my car to take home.
  18. Having 8 pillows in your room to choose from is not better - it only became a chore to try them all and make a decision.
  19. Munchkins must assemble showers in hotels because the shower heads are always very very low and while it works great for me, I can't help but think they're a pain in the ass for the general population.
  20. Hair that comes in an aerosol can and is sprayed on your head doesn't really disguise the fact that you're bald.  As a matter of fact it just makes you look like an even bigger douche bag.
I'm sure I'll learn more things on this journey and I'm looking forward to this educational experience with great anticipation!!

Friday, November 11, 2011

Stop It. Stop It RIGHT NOW.

Watching TV with the family is becoming increasingly painful and difficult.  Not because we cannot agree on a show to watch.  Not because we cannot locate a show sans sex or sexual innuendos or profanity.  And not because we can't find the time.  It's all because of the freakin' commercials.

Last night as the blond and I attempted to watch Vietnam in HD on the History Channel, a commercial for Cialis would come on EVERY.FUCKING.BREAK.  So I would quickly switch over to TVLand to Everybody Loves Raymond.  Only to be met with a Viagra commercial.  So back to the History Channel I would go.  And what was on?  Another Viagra commercial.  WHAT.THE.FUCK.  This was between the hours of 7 p.m. and 9 p.m.  Isn't that considered prime time for family viewing?  And it doesn't just happen on the upper cable channels.  I've also fallen victim to this bullshit on the major TV networks. 

Is erectile dysfunction really that big (no pun intended) of a problem?  Is this really something the entire universe of TV viewers needs to be subjected to?  Don't I read in the paper and hear on the news DAILY about sex scandals?  Coaches.  School officials.  Politicians.  Church leaders.  Corporate execs.  It's everywhere.  Everyday.  Some dip shit stuck his dick where it didn't belong.  It's enough to make a person physically ill.  Has no one read the first book of the Bible?  Did no one learn from that?  Go back and read it again.  You think with your dick and so begins the saga of bad shit. 

I suppose to further piss me off and make me sick, this shit is covered by insurance.  I'd have to guess that it is because (it seems to me) the pharmaceutical companies and insurance companies are all in cahoots with each other.  And just exactly how large is their marketing budget?  C'mon TV stations - get your shit together and quit selling yourselves out for the almighty dollar.  We're trying to watch a documentary.  On the Vietnam War.  With our kids.  Do you really think we want to explain erectile dysfunction to a nine year old right then and there? 

Scruples.  Get some.  Please. 

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Lasagna and Other Matters Less Important

Recently I received a text from a friend while at the grocery store.  Turns out she was also at the grocery store and her text was a grocery emergency regarding my lasagna recipe I'd shared with her:

Her:  I'm at the you use spaghetti sauce in the lasagna or tomato sauce? And I saw the snots on Sunday at [local festival name].

Me:  Spag sauce.  I hate those snots. I actually use tomato sauce and that dry spag sauce mix in the gravy aisle

Her: Thanks!  That's what I remember, the dry.  [More on snots seen at local festival]

So I'm all thinking she's good to go on the lasagna and such and moved on with my life like I often do after a benign conversation about sauce and snots.  But oh hell no - TWO days later I receive another text from her.

Her:  I'm being a pain in the ass.  [that's no shit] How long do you cook the lasagna?  My computer crashed and I lost everything. [likely story - it's just easier to text me than it is to actually LOOK for the information I've previously provided to you]

Me:  Hell if I know!  Let's say 60 min if at room temp, 90 if out of fridge? 

Her:  Temp?  I think 425 or 375.  Otherwise I'm gonna wing it.

Me:  I cook everything on 350

Her:  Sounds good.  Thanks.

So seriously.  Did it take her 2 days to assemble that lasagna and she was just now getting ready to cook it?  Or what the hell was taking her so long to get that shit in the oven I'll never know.  But what I did know is that all of a sudden, I had a hankerin for some lasagna myself.  So that day, I went out and purchased all the ingredients for my now world famous much sought after lasagna recipe. 

And that night (see I'm efficient - I do shit on the same day) as I mixed the ricotta cheese with the eggs, I had this strange feeling that it didn't "feel right".  The consistency was off.  But I just kept mixing along.  Then as I worked on assembling the layers, when I got to the part to spread the ricotta on the mess, it hit me:  THIS FUCKING RECIPE DOESN'T CALL FOR RICOTTA - IT CALLS FOR COTTAGE CHEESE.  WHAT.THE.FUCK.  I have NEVER used ricotta in lasagna - well once I did and I didn't like it which is how my recipe came to NOT.USE.RICOTTA but instead USE.COTTAGE.CHEESE. 

So.  This is your fault friend in need of help at grocery store that day.  You asked me so many damned questions about my lasagna that even I forgot my own recipe and and had to choke down dry ass lasagna - 15 pounds of it to be exact. 


Saturday, November 5, 2011

Seriously, FDA. WTF?

So I've likely previously mentioned somewhere in this rant of a blog that I cannot stand the FDA.  I like to refer to them as the Fucking Dumb Asses.  They cannot seem to make up their minds on anything.  One day something is good for you and encourage the public to eat it, take it, drink it, do it, whatever.  Then later they change their mind and determine that whatever it was is now bad for you and will kill you.  Or vice versa.  They don't have a fucking clue.  That's what I think.  And they just make shit up as they go along and like sheep, we all just follow along with whatever bullshit they feed us.  Anywho...

I finally picked up this script that the doctor ordered - you know - the one I've been bitching about for two weeks now.  The whole point behind this script was to do something about my anxiety, insomnia, perpetual irritability and the likes thereof.  I RARELY take drugs (except for the occasional Xanax to calm me down) and I don't believe in them BECAUSE of my opinion of the FDA.  But being at a point of desperation, I decided to move forward with this one and give it a whirl.  The drugs came with 5 pages of instructions and warnings and read each and every word so I could familiarize myself with what to expect.  I won't rehash all the warnings but here's a snippet of the expected or possible side effects of these pills:

Anxiety or panic attacks
Feeling agitated, restless, angry or irritable
Trouble sleeping
Unusual changes in behavior or mood

WTF FDA?  If I'm set out to develop a drug that will curb those types of things, and determine, through "extensive testing" that the drug I developed also causes or worsens those things, how the hell do you call that a success?  I mean, I'm thinking that it's a complete project failure.  ???  Whatever.  As I continued to read through this paperwork with the husband, we determined that neither of us would really be able to assess if I was experiencing any of the side effects or if it was just normal every day bullshit from me. 

Me:  Says here that I should call 911 if I start having grand ideas.  WTF is wrong with a grand idea?  Are they afraid I'll finally solve the world's problems and part of that will be to shut them down?  Also says to call 911 if I start talking more or faster than usual.

Him:  I don't know how that's possible or how I'd be able to determine if you were talking more or faster because you never shut up and you're always going 100 mph. 

Me:  Also says here that side effects include feeling anxious, sweating, not feeling hungry...

Him:  Well, you're always anxious, you have horrible night sweats and have you even eaten today?

Me:  No.  I don't know.  I don't remember.  I'm not hungry so I don't think I have eaten today.

Him:  Great.  So now I have to babysit you and make damned certain you eat because you never eat and now you're taking medication that might make that worse.

Me:  Says here that yawning is a side effect. {yawn}  Great.  Now I'm yawning.  {yawn}  Fuck.  I yawned again.  {yawn}  Shit.  I can't stop yawning ever since I said the word yawning.  {yawn}  This is not going to be good. {yawn}  My jaw is already starting hurt from all the {yawn} yawning.  DAMMIT.  Do you think it's the drug already kicking in or do you think it's just that yawning {yawn} SHIT is contagious and habitual?  {yawn}

Him:  I don't know.  But stop yawning because now it's making me have to {yawn} yawn.  Have you had any grand ideas yet?  {yawn}

Me:  No.  I don't think so - but I think all my ideas are fairly grand so how will I be able to tell? 

Him:  No clue.

And with that we yawned our way to bed.  The next morning I must have yawned 50 times in the first hour I was awake.  And my stomach was upset and I had a horrible headache. 

Me:  I can't stop yawning and I'm nauseous and I have a horrible headache.  Do you think it's side effects from these drugs?

Him:  I'm guessing it's side effects from the 10 beers you slammed down last night and the fact you didn't eat yesterday. 

Me:  oh.  It did mention not to use alcohol when taking this medication.  Do you think they were serious about that? 

Him:  Maybe you should have started the medication when you were sober so you could get an idea how it makes you feel sober instead of taking it when you were drinking? 

Well THERE'S a GRAND IDEA.  Clearly this shit does NOT work.

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Update on crazy status........

Last post:  umpteen days ago. 
Subject Matter:  Drugs to cure my Craziness
Current Status:  Still Crazy

Or am I?  See, that's the part I'm not sure about.  As I mentioned nearly 14 days ago, the DOCTOR determined I should take some kind of medication to "get my neurons back on track" because they were "out of whack."  I know.  A terribly scientific and clinic diagnosis.  I waited a day to go pick up the meds, ya know, just to be thoughtful to the pharmacy and all.  I mean, I'm already crazy evidently, so what's another day, right?  Well, when I got there, the pharmacy informed me that the script required prior authorization from the doctor. 

Huh?  Who the fuck do you think wrote that script?  Me?  I just shook my head and told the husband to drive away from the pick-up window quickly before I snapped.  Easy enough.  They'll call the doctor tomorrow, he'll grant the authorization.  The pharmacy will confirm with insurance that indeed it was the doctor that wrote the script and not me posing as the doctor and the script would be filled the next day.  No worries.  Just go to bed early and no one will get hurt in the interim. 

So the next day I went to the pharmacy and got an update.  "Well, the insurance company doesn't want you to have that script, they want you to have something else."  Again, realizing the pharmacy was just the middle man in the game, I nodded my head and walked away calmly, denying the senseless urge to ram my buggy into every display I passed in the pharmacy and racking my brain to remember when it was I actually saw the insurance company - clearly I had as they were now treating me instead of the doctor. 

I checked back a few more times and eventually just reached a point where it just didn't matter anymore.  Fuck it.  I've been crazy for a long fucking time and have learned to deal with it.  I'll just keep dealing wiith it on my own because dealing with attempting to correct it was just making me even more crazy.

YESTERDAY I got a letter from the insurance company.  "YOUR request for script XYZ has been denied after reveiw by our out-sourced clinical reveiw team."  That's how it started.  First off - I did NOT fucking request the script XYZ.  The doctor did.  But evidently that means nothing anymore.  B- what the fuck was reviewed?  No one knows.  Then I got a call from the doctor's office - Your insurance has denied the top-shelf drugs - you're not worthy of them.  Instead, I have found you a generic THAT WORKS and is only $10 for a 90 day supply!!!!! 

Whatever.  I don't even care anymore.  I really don't.  I'm not the one that's crazy.  It's this fucking conglomoration of insurance and pharmaceutical companies that are crazy.